To Rise From the Lethe
by Deep Space Cowgirl
Summary: A sword, a shield, and a small bag of coins. Not a very helpful group of things to try and put a life back together. A name would've been nice... AU and sort-of game retelling. Will diverge more and more from the game's plotline as the story continues.
1. The view from the gallows

I never thought it was possible to love a game's battle system as much as I loathed its plotline before I bought myself FFTA. I mean, seriously, the complexity of the job system, the ever-changing battle laws, and the sheer variety of weapons, attack types, and abilities is, in my humble opinion, far, far too advanced for the nine and ten year olds that the game's plotline seems to be geared towards.(I mean, I don't think _I_ could have handled it at that age. If you can/did, good for you. Pat yourself on the back for being smarter than me, not that that's very hard) I also thought the theme of 'you can't escape your problems, you have to deal with them and reality' was rather comical in a video game that was _created _for the purpose of facilitating escapism. (To quote Babus: "What? Nothing? You would make the prince suffer over… nothing?")

So. Here is my take on the game. The most major change is, naturally, that Ivalice is real. Others will become obvious along the way... (HINT: Look at the title. And the summary.)

Other miscellaneous, general story warnings: Bloodshed, language, death, mild sexual humor (I don't write what I don't know, so it probably won't get too graphic), politics, OC's, possible OOCness, and speculation on the reproductive system of the Viera. Yes, this is going to be a much darker story than the original FFTA. I do not write for small children... keep that in mind as you read.

Chapter-specific warnings: Death. (GASP!)

Disclaimer: If I owned SquareEnix, I wouldn't need to write fanfiction now, would I? But go ahead, sue me if you feel so inclined. I'm a college student, all you'll get is an IOU note, and you'll still have to pay your lawyer anyway. Doesn't that make you sad?

Editing note: Some wordings were bothering me, so I tidied them up a bit. Nothing changes in the flow of the story, they were just little things that were annoying me.

* * *

**_-Laws: A History-_**

**_For as long as there has been an Ivalice, the laws have existed. The king in those nearly forgotten days at the dawn of the kingdom used powerful magic to create the first laws. This ancient ruler, whose very name has been lost to the sands of time, used magic of great and terrible power to make these laws a tangible reality. He then established the judicial system to enforce these laws and hence, Ivalice as we know it came into being. Knowledge of the means to control these laws is the most jealously guarded secret of the royal family._**

* * *

To Rise from the Lethe

Prologue: The view from the gallows

* * *

The woman was graceful as she calmly walked up the steps to the scaffold that had been erected in the city square of the town that had sprung up around Bervenia Palace, most commonly referred to as the Castle Town, despite the fact that it was much too large to be called a mere town anymore. Her features were absolutely blank, not a hint of the panic or fear that normally haunted the faces of those condemned to die. No, in the white robes that marked a capital offender, coupled with her soft blond hair and pure blue eyes, she looked almost angelic, an appearance that seemed to defiantly mock the shackles around her wrist riddled with so many anti-magic runes that she _had _to have a rash underneath the chafing metal and the cruel yellow symbol that had been tattooed to her forehead, permanently sealing every technique that she could ever learn, a mark that would summon the Judges to her like bees to honey even in the unlikely event that she _should _escape her captivity. Not that that had even a whimsical chance of happening now, not in sight of the palace and ringed by countless spectators, here to see the last gasp of the revolution be snuffed out by the law. Still, the woman took these signs of utter helplessness and humiliation with a dignity so bone-deep that not even her impending death could strip it from her. Somehow, the way she walked and held her head made the hooded executioners flanking her on either side seem to be honor guards on her ascent to martyrdom instead of agents assigned to make sure that she did not make one last desperate dash to life and freedom. Her innate… purity, almost, was enough to make the figure that came riding on Chocobo from the palace gates, bedecked in the formal armor of a Judge to the point where not a single bit of flesh was visible but wearing a black cloak in honor of the event seem almost demonic in comparison. Some of the braver people in the crowd glared at the armored man as he too ascended the wooden stares, unrolling an official scroll as he climbed, but once the vision slits of the visor were turned on them all faces were expressionless once more.

"Bela Vargane, leader of the infamous Phoenix Clan, Formerly of Cadoan–"

"Dorsa," the woman corrected. Her voice was soft and melodic, though surprisingly low-pitched for a woman. In the dead hush of the square, her voice carried everywhere, even to those perched on the roofs of buildings a good block away, straining for a glimpse of this legendary outlaw who had so angered the royalty that she was being executed in a public ceremony, something that had not happened for several hundred years.

"The Queen's Justice does not recognize a village by the name of Dorsa…"

"The Queen's Justice does not recognize a good many things, apparently, including the fact that I was married to Yenke Radiuju for nearly twenty years." This set many of the crowd to tittering and the executioners to shifting around in agitation. "Furthermore, I have no doubt that my father is spinning in his grave at the very thought of his precious surname being attached to me, seeing as he went to all the trouble of disowning myself and my mother and then throwing us out on the street so that he could marry his mistress," the woman corrected, her tone dripping sarcasm. Many people in the crowd were impressed. Few had the courage to speak in such a manner to one of the Queen's Judges, especially not with a hempen rope twined around their necks. Something about the way the Judge's shoulders changed position seemed to say that he sensed this and was highly annoyed.

"Be silent, traitor. The crimes this woman has been found guilty of before the Queen's Justice are as follows: Treason, unlawful insurrection, arson, acts of extreme violence against the Queen's Guards, repeated and willful violation of the combat laws, theft of state secrets, multiple acts of sabotage, the spreading of duplicitous and malignant rumors crafted to incite insurrection, and grand larceny, in the form of theft from the Royal Treasury. As punishment, this woman is to be hung from the neck until dead. However, the Queen is merciful and offers the Gift of Last Words to Bela Vargane." There was a slight emphasis on the surname, but this time the woman did not react. In fact, she ignored it so painfully that it was quite clearly an insult. "Provided, of course, that the convicted does not spew more of her treasonous lies or attempt to forestall her execution with needless rambling."

A smile, of all things, appeared on the doomed woman's face, ignoring the second barb that the Judge had thrown at her. "Actually, I have a question for you Lord Judge."

"Really?" the armored man asked, amusement creeping into his voice.

"Why yes. I was merely wondering if you had ever considered… just what an abhorrent and confining thing the power to grant wishes can be?" she asked, her smile turning ironic to the confusion of most of the crowd, most of whom had no comprehension or understanding of what, exactly, her words had really meant. Those rare few who did understand gasped, or stared with wide eyes at the woman for her utter gall in the face of death.

One of those men who understood was the Judge who had been asked the question. Although his helm made it impossible to glimpse his facial expression, the way he forcibly threw one of the executioners aside so that he might throw the lever himself spoke volumes. In his rage and haste he wrenched down the wooden release lever so hard that he broke the wooden handle in half. The mechanism's job had been completed, however, and the trapdoor beneath the woman's feet dropped open, taking her unprotesting body with it.

Bela Vargane, or rather, Bela Raidiuju of the once proud hidden village called Dorsa, died gracefully and immediately, her neck breaking at the bottom of her fall and sparing her a lingering and painful death. Those who glimpsed her corpse later on claimed to be unnerved by the victorious smile that remained stamped upon her features even after the life had been snuffed out of her. Some even claimed that her eyes still sparked with the glimmering ghost of vengeance right up until the point when one of the executioners closed them.

There was one thing that everyone was in agreement on, however. Despite the fact that the Royalty had her head mounted on the castle battlements, the woman known reverently as the Gray Phoenix had indeed gotten the last laugh.


	2. Awakening to Nothing

Don't expect another chapter this quickly ever again! I already had it eighty percent done when I posted the prologue, otherwise I wouldn't have had anything to post this quickly. If you get an update from me once a month, normally, you're lucky. Just ask the poor souls waiting for updates on my other story…

Disclaimer: Go look at the first chapter. I guarentee you that nothing major has changed between now and then.

Chapter-specific warnings: Violence, bloodshed, language, very mild innuendo. Expect the first three warnings in nearly every chapter from now on. People in my stories do not say 'oh darn' when someone stabs them in the stomach or takes out one of their friends.

Editing Note: Ah, spelling, my eternal enemy... Also made a clarification in the Author's notes.

* * *

_**-Laws are Unfair!-**_

**_Resentment towards Queen Remedi, the First of her Name, has been building since the end of the Jagd Purge Wars. The reason? Need this humble gossip elaborate? The frequent and seeming arbitrary changes in the laws, supposedly to 'help contain the threat' of undesirable elements that escaped the Purge Wars. The nearly-constant fluxations of late are so ridiculous that some disgruntled clan members have gone so far to say that she's "…doing it to please her bratling heir." However, more reasoning individuals doubt that the same woman who unflinchingly led us to war nearly ten years ago would be swayed by the whining of a fourteen-year-old boy. Some unreasonably unbalanced individuals have gone so far as to spout off the Phoenix Clan rhetoric in the face of this speculation… however, one would think that anyone can understand that the less that is said about that particular subject, the better everyone will be._**

To Rise From the Lethe

Chapter One: Awakening to Nothing

* * *

"_Say, if I wasn't here to drag you both down with my useless body, do you think Mom would still be alive?"_

"_Don't look at it! Don't look! Get out before I-"_

"_You want it to be this color, right? Now you can be happy, right?"_

"_And if things _do _go back to the way they're supposed to be, who do you think will really be happy in the end? I'll tell you… no one. That's right, not even you…"_

* * *

A yellow-white brilliance burned away the dreamy blur of voices, leaving him with nothing but a painful light that scourged him even behind closed eyelids. With a put-upon groan, he rolled over and dragged a hand over his eyes, trying to blot out the relentless glow that was assaulting him and dutifully ignoring the dull scraping noise that accompanied the movement. What was that light, anyway? The sun? Yes, what else would it be? Where was a cloud when you needed one? Or a curtain…

"What the hell are you doing sleeping in an alley you little ragamuffin?! Get your sorry ass off my property!" A kick in his ribs sent him crashing into something very solid and knocking the wind out of him. As quickly as he could he scrambled to his protesting feet and forced his eyes open.

It took several eye-watering seconds for him to adjust to the sunlight, but having been thrown into a shadow helped a little. Enough to let him know that he _was _indeed, in an alley of some sort, a tiny space between two buildings that appeared to be made of sandstone, lined with giant jars and what appeared to be, at the far end, a basin for dumping trash. It was sealed, thankfully, but even that couldn't stop the smell from telling its story. The ground was nothing but sandy dirt dotted with clumps of grass, dirt that was now clinging to his clothing. Coupled with his headache, the injury to his side that he was certain was bruising at that very moment, and his growing confusion as to where, exactly, the hell he was… well, it wasn't exactly the way he preferred to start his mornings. Or early afternoons, judging by the position of the sky. "I'm very sorry to have bothered you, sir," he mumbled to the rather intimidating man waving a frying pan ominously in his direction. "To be honest, I really have no idea how I got here…"

"Hmph," the man said, lowering his makeshift weapon, causing the boy to sigh in relief. "Come to think of it, you do look a bit beat up… although you probably brought it on yourself. Carrying a sword in the open like that is asking for trouble these days, if you ask me, either from Borzoi or gods know who else." The boy stared at his attacker for one bewildered second before looking down at himself. Indeed, hanging from his side was a short sword, probably no longer than the length of his forearm, but a weapon nonetheless. Where the heck had _that _come from, anyway? He couldn't…

He couldn't…

Come to think of it, where had _he _come from? Where had he received his clothing, his leather boots, his red pants, his blue top, the bag of little metal pieces, the bronze shield that was strapped to his back? Where was his family, his friends? Where was this sandy little alley?

What was his name?

"Um, excuse me sir… but could you tell me, exactly, where I am? I've gotten a little lost, see…"

"Well… once you _get out of my alley_ you'll be on Shale Street. Just walk straight north and that'll take you to the main square. Now, are you going to move your rear or am I going to move it for you?!"

"I'm leaving, I'm leaving! Thank you for the directions!" he protested, backing out of the alley with both hands upraised in warding gestures, as if that would be enough to stop someone nearly twice his size from braining him with an iron frying pan. The shield on his back never occurred to him as a defense, nor did he even consider drawing the short sword to defend himself. He was too bewildered to even try to think straight. He tripped over a loose bit of rock as he was backing away from the man and went sprawling on his back yet again, the shield digging painfully into his spine to the point where he wondered how on earth he could have fallen asleep with it on in the first place. The man in the alley laughed at his misfortune and reentered the building he'd stormed out of with a resounding crash as he slammed the door behind him.

"Well," the boy said as calmly as he could, trying to gather his scattered and panicked thoughts as he stared up at the empty blue sky. "This might possibly be the worst day of my life, and it just started a moment ago."

The sky above him was empty, devoid of clouds, birds, or answers. With a put-upon groan, he dragged himself to his feet and started heading towards the 'main square' that he'd been told about. Whatever a 'main square' was. He thought he had a vague image of a place where goods were exchanged, but if he couldn't even remember his name, how could he be certain of anything else?

The poor boy was so thoroughly lost in his thoughts that he walked right into something that had slightly more give than brick and 'oof'ed as he bounced off of it and found himself sprawled on the street yet again, this time cracking his head against the cobblestones hard enough to make nasty little black stars explode across his vision. "Oww," he groaned.

"Watch where you're going, sson," the wall hissed at him.

"S-sorry," he wheezed, rubbing his head. It had been giving him enough grief when he'd woken up, he didn't want to think about one more hit would do.

"Are you mocking uss, boy?"

"No! Of course not!" he objected hurriedly, scrambling to his feet. "That's the last thing on my mi-" The nameless boy looked up. And up.

Standing before him was an imposing looking creature twice his height. Orange scales covered its muscular body, and it wore some nasty looking iron knuckles on both hands. A forked tongue snaked in and out as it looked down its impressive snout at him, dark eyes waiting impassively for him to continue. "You…you're a lizard!" he blurted out before he could think, then winced. Something told him that that had been the wrong thing to say. The way the creature's nostrils flared and its narrow dark eyes widened slightly only told him that he was right.

"_What did you sssay?"_ it bellowed, the hissing becoming more prominent as it lost its temper.

"It takess a lot of nerve to call a bangaa a lizard, brat," his companion growled, cracking his knuckles. The boy noted a full-length sword hanging from the belt of the other lizard… er, bangaa, and winced. Unlike himself, he would have bet money that the liz-_bangaa_ actually knew how to use his weapon. "I wonder how long it will take to pound that cheek out of you?"

"Um, I, ah…" the boy stuttered, backing away. Maybe he could outrun these bangaa things? Hope that the fact that they were very big meant that they were slow? Unfortunately for him, people and rabbit things were starting to gather around the three of them, clearly anticipating a fight. He might be able to outrun the bangaa, and he _might _be able to squeeze his way through that crowd, but he doubted he'd be able to succeed in doing both. He was well and truly stuck. _Great. What next?_ He wondered morbidly, his left hand wandering towards the hilt of his only weapon. Maybe he'd remember how to use it. If he was lucky. With the way his day had been going, he doubted he would be…

"Hey, there you are! I've been looking for you everywhere!" a voice called from the crowd. Something small and white squeezed between the legs of another bangaa and landed gracelessly in the open area. "Oof," it muttered, grabbing a rod off the ground and brushing dust off its green jacket. A tiny pair of bat wings were sticking out of two slits in its jacket and a large red… thing stuck up on some sort of antennae jutted out from between its rather overlarge ears. The boy had no idea what the heck it was, but if it knew who _he _was, than he could care less. That hope was shattered a moment later when the creature waddled over next to him and whispered. "Just follow my lead, kupo. I promise I'll get you out of this."

"I can do that," the boy replied, trying to hide his disappointment. This creature wasn't staring down its snout at him or watching gleefully waiting for him to get beaten up, which put it several notches ahead of everyone else he'd met today. He would _not _be disappointed because the furball didn't know him from… from… something…_ damn, that's a phrase I should know,_ he growled as the rest of the saying disappeared from his memory.

"Thiss rude little brat with you, moogle?" Knuckle Bangaa asked.

"Yeah, he's a cousin of a friend. Just in from the countryside, kupo, so can you cut the bumpkin a break? This is his first time in a real city, he just doesn't know the proper forms of address, and I'm sure he's very sorry. _Aren't _you?" the furball prompted

"I-yeah. I'm sorry. About everything," he apologized haltingly, wincing at every pathetic word.

"He doesn't ssound very ssorry," Knuckle Bangaa growled.

"Nope, he ssoundss more like he'ss going to wet himsself!" Sword Bangaa crowed, and the boy ducked his head so the creature wouldn't see his blush of humiliation or his glare. No point in wasting the furball's time if he was just going to end up picking another fight.

"Hey now, be nice to the kid. This is his first time seeing a bangaa, kupo, and I'd say you've made quite an impression," the furball protested, grabbing the boy's wrist as he did. "Now, if you'll excuse us, we have an appointment to keep." With that, the furball started half-dragging him away.

"Thanks," the boy mumbled as they got closer and closer to the far edge of the rapidly-dispelling crowd.

"Don't mention i-"

"Hey, moogle! If that boy'ss a coussin of a friend, doessn't that mean that he'ss related to that little ssneak, Lunaiss?" Knuckle Bangaa called to their retreating backs.

"Oh, kupo," the furball groaned.

"Lunais?" the boy asked, confused.

"Trouble incarnate, kupo. He's always getting me into trouble, even when he's not here," his winged companion explained. He then proceeded to mutter several things under his breath that sounded rather less than polite, if the glare the little creature was shooting at the cobblestones was anything to go by.

"Yeah! The moogle doessn't have any other human friendss!" Sword Bangaa agreed.

"Well, the moogle'ss a black mage and… Ssay, boy… you're a ssoldier, aren't you?" Knuckle Bangaa asked, sizing him up with his eyes and clearly finding him wanting.

"Um, what…?" the boy muttered, thoroughly confused.

"Of coursse he iss," Sword Bangaa sneered. "With thosse clothess, the sshield and that ssword, what elsse would he be?"

"I…" well, it wasn't like he was in a position to deny anything. For all he knew he was.

"Excellent… then the bumpkin wouldn't mind a…_friendly _little engagement now, would he?" Knuckle Bangaa hissed, a truly sinister smile blossoming on his narrow distinctly reptilian face.

The crowd suddenly cleared well back, drifting to the far ends of the street or retreating into various buildings. Those who did seek shelter in doors usually poked their heads out from behind shutters, their eyes fixed on the scene before them. The sensation was like needles being driven repeatedly into the back of his neck, and the boy couldn't stand it. "I'd say your plan backfired…" he groaned.

"Spectacularly," the furball agreed. "But don't worry, I promised to help you out of this, kupo!" as the furball said that, a fully armored figure riding a… giant bird thing… appeared between the two parties.

"The challenge has been issued," the armored man declared rather flatly. Despite the almost emotionless tone, the man sounded almost… bored. "You may commence."

"Huh?" the boy asked, now utterly confused.

"They've engaged us!" the furball growled, clearly getting exasperated with him. "Now we have to fight them! Seriously kupo, don't you even know that?"

"Oh. Right," the boy replied, unslinging his shield and drawing his short sword with an ease that unnerved him slightly. As soon as his hands closed around the hilt he knew that he could use this weapon, that he could fight, cripple, even kill with this weapon. That knowledge terrified him to no end.

"What'ss wrong, sson? Afraid of the beating I'm going to give you?" asked the bangaa, banging the iron knuckles together and grinning maliciously.

"Nope, more like afraid of what I'm going to do to you," the boy replied honestly, belatedly realizing that he'd stuck his foot in his mouth for the second time that day. He wouldn't have thought it was possible before, but the orange scales of the bangaa seemed to darken a shade closer to red just before the bangaa charged, flailing his fists wildly.

_Wow, I was right. They really_ are _slow, _the boy realized as he backed away, easily dodging or blocking with his shield every single attack that Knuckle Bangaa threw at him. It was almost laughably easy, to the point where he wondered why he'd been so nervous around the bangaa in the first place. Sure, the guy was twice his size, but that didn't matter if Knuckle Bangaa couldn't hit him…

_You're slight like I was when I was your age, Marche, so you're going to have to learn to fight smart, _a voice seemed to say from his memory. He only paid it half an ear, his attention focused on keeping from being bludgeoned anywhere vital. _You can't afford to rush in blindly; you'll just get yourself killed. Analyze your opponent's fighting style… _which was apparently just rushing in and swinging his fists like a deranged, drunken idiot, hoping that he'd hit something… _look for the weaknesses… _gods above, there were so many that it was hard to choose from… _and when the time is ripe…_

"…break his stance!" the boy shouted along with the memory-voice, dropping underneath Knuckle Bangaa's clumsy right hook and sweeping the bangaa's feet out from under him with a well-placed kick to the backs of the kneecaps. As the bangaa fell forward the boy rolled to the left, bringing the short sword in his right hand up in a reflexive horizontal slash that sliced his opponent's stomach open. To his momentary disgust Knuckle Bangaa wasn't even wearing any armor underneath his pretentious robes… what, did the bully think he was so almighty that no one would be able to fight back when faced with his superior strength? The _arrogant…_

And then he caught sight of the blood gleaming on his sword and stuck to his clothing and seeping into the sandy cracks between the cobblestones, the desert-like soil sucking it up greedily as if it were water. The sight was almost enough to make him lose the contents of his stomach. _I… _I _did this…! _Sure, Knuckle Bangaa was brash and arrogant and annoying, but he didn't deserve to die and there was a _lot _of blood leaking from that injury. Even with his memory in the tatters that it was, he was certain that he'd just inflicted a fatal injury…

"You little human bassstard!" shouted Sword Bangaa, and even in his state of distress he was able to duck out of the way in time to avoid the sword that whistled at his head. The bangaa's fist, however, caught him right in the stomach. The same leather armor that had stopped the man earlier from breaking his ribs also absorbed a fair amount of the blow, but the sheer force was enough to send him flying a good five feet, and for the third time that day he found himself sprawled flat on his back and staring at the sky, winded and dazed. "When I'm finisshed with you, not even the revival field will be enough to fix you!"

"Too bad you won't have time to start, kupo," the furball stated in a flat tone. From a point about three feet above Sword Bangaa's head a bolt of lightning materialized, striking just as the enraged warrior raised his sword above his head for a killing blow. The energy hit the weapon like a lightning rod, amplifying the current as it pulsed through the unlucky bangaa's body. Sword Bangaa crumpled in a ball – a charred, crispy-smelling ball – right where he had been standing, which was lucky for the boy. Levering himself to his knees was all that he could do at the moment.

"Arrogant little sswine," Knuckle Bangaa hissed, dragging himself upright. "I'll… fix you…!" From one of the pouches on his belt the creature pulled out a vial of red liquid. Using his teeth he popped the cork out and spat it at the boy, missing by several feet. That didn't do a thing to dampen his smirk as he chugged the contents of the bottle. When he threw the empty glass bottle to the side he levered himself to his feet and the boy gasped. The tear in Knuckle Bangaa's stomach had been completely healed! _Well crap, what do I do now? _He wondered, levering himself to his feet with his sword.

"That," the furball said, contempt dripping from his squeaky little voice, "was phenomenally stupid."

And, right on the heels of that, the armored man on the bird suddenly materialized behind Knuckle Bangaa. "Infraction of the law forbidding item use. All violators will be sent to prison." The armored man then pulled out a blood-red card scribed with runes that the boy couldn't even begin to decipher.

"NO!" Knuckle Bangaa screamed as the card glowed white, but before he could say anything else the glow grew bright enough to consume him. When the boy's vision cleared the bangaa was gone. So was the armored man.

"What just happened?" he muttered, sheathing his sword.

"Ugh, that fool got himself sent to the slammer," the furball groaned, rolling his eyes. "What an idiot, kupo. It's not like the laws are that hard to follow…"

"Slammer? Laws?" the boy asked, confused.

"You… you didn't _know?_" the furball asked, his eyes widening and the wing on his back starting to flap irregularly. "The Judges enforce the laws that dictate the engagement. Today's laws forbid the use of items… you can check the rotation at the local pub, or whenever you come to a city gate… you really didn't know, did you kupo? Where are you _from, _anyway?"

"Haven't the faintest idea," the boy replied honestly. "I woke up in an alley ten minutes ago, and since then everyone's been gunning to attack me but you. I don't remember anything before that."

"You mean… oh _kupo,_" the furball moaned. "Arthur's going to _kill _me for letting some kid with amnesia fight."

"Who?"

"Another friend," the furball sighed. "Look… my name's Montblanc, Montblanc Krisona. Do you remember yours?"

"I don't…" suddenly he flashed back to his fight, and the memory-voice that had seemed to guide him through the battle. "Marche. It's Marche. I think, anyway."

"Good enough for me, kupo!" the fu-Montblanc responded cheerfully. "Say, I saw how well you handled yourself during the fight." Marche winced, thinking about the way the blood had splashed all over everything, and Montblanc didn't miss it "Something wrong, kupo?"

"How can you be happy about something like that?" Marche demanded, horrified. "I know that was a deathblow… if he hadn't cheated and used that red stuff, he would have _died! _What kind of a sick, twisted system makes it illegal to save yourself when you're bleeding out on the street?"

"Ah, you don't have to worry about that, kupo. Or at least, not so loudly, anyway. Take a look," Montblanc assured him, pointing to the unconscious body of Sword Bangaa. The wounded warrior was sitting up dazedly, all traces of charred scales gone completely.

"That wass truly a good fight, moogle, human. I apologize for the sshameful conduct of my companion. Defeat iss ssomething that sshould be accepted with grace."

"When did he get healed?" Marche whispered to his rescuer, utterly bewildered.

"That's one of the things that the Judges do. When an engagement is declared, kupo, the Judge sets up a barrier that prevents permanent damage to the participants. Basically, it's impossible to kill someone during an engagement… that's why we have the laws." Montblanc then turned his attention to the defeated bangaa. "Don't be worried about that fool, kupo. Up until the end, it was a good match."

The bangaa's mouth twisted into something that was almost a smirk. "Thankss for trying to sspare my feelingss, but a lossss iss a lossss. I sshall have to train and better mysself, and then, perhapss, we sshall fight once again. I look forward to that time, esspecially to a match with you, boy. Your reflexessess are ssurprissingly good for a human."

"Um… thank you. And… I really am sorry about the whole 'lizard' thing. I honestly didn't know it was an insult, I was surprised and just blurted the first thing that popped into my head without thinking."

The bangaa waved it off. "I believe I may have – how do you humanss ssay it – put my foot in my mouth sseveral times during our converssation mysself. Do not trouble yoursself over it." With that final apology, the bangaa bowed and walked away. "We sshall do battle again in the future, boy. I sshall do my besst to better mysself between now and then," he called over his shoulder in parting.

"He actually wasn't all that bad," Marche murmured, somewhat bewildered by the complete personality reversal.

"Most bangaa are like that. They get all kupo during a fight, but once it's over they're actually pretty decent to have around," Montblanc assured him. "So… now that you know about the whole 'not dying' thing, what do you say to joining my clan?"

"Um… clan?"

"Yeah, someone needs to look out for you… oh, please don't tell me…"

"Yup, I have no idea what you're talking about."

Montblanc sighed, his ears, red poofy thing, and wings drooping simultaneously to make him look like some sort of wilting flower. "Kupo… this is going to take a lot of explaining, isn't it?"

"I'll say it is. You've really picked a hopeless case this time, haven't you Montblanc?" a man clad in green seemed to materialize beside Marche, draping a companionable hand over his shoulder. His dark brown, nearly black hair stuck out at random angles from his head, pushed out of his eyes by a green headband the same color as his cloak. Under that he wore a dark blue vest with many pockets over an off-white tunic, along with green-black breeches that probably never showed travel stains (Unlike his own bright red pants and bright blue shirt. Maybe he should consider changing up his wardrobe… or at least getting his clothing clean. The sand was annoying enough, but the blood was just macabre and gross) and a well-worn pair of boots. A rather large bag was firmly anchored to his belt, along with a knife that was, to his faint embarrassment, almost as long as his sword. "If I hadn't seen the kid fight back there, I'd be very offended that my new cousin is such a hopelessly naïve child."

"L-Lunais?" Montblanc stuttered, his fur suddenly standing up all over his body. "You… you kupo troublemaker! You were here the whole time and didn't help us?"

"Montblanc, I am wounded deeply. What makes you think I didn't help you?" the man asked, dark green eyes flashing in amusement as he held up a rather plump leather satchel. A rather _familiar _plump leather satchel… but where had he seen it before?

"Lunais, please tell me that that does not belong to who I think it belongs to…"

"What are you talking about, Montblanc? This belongs to you. Think of it as the Cheater's Fee, extracted by Lunais, bringer of justice, balance…"

"Chaos, migraine headaches, enraged watchmen…"

"I'm missing something here," Marche stated flatly, his blue eyes flicking from one to the other in naked suspicion. An expression that Marche could only describe as 'demonic' (even though he didn't remember what a demon was, the word fit) suddenly blossomed across the thief's face as he crushed Marche to his chest with the hand that was already draped over his shoulder and proceeded to rearrange his hair with a bare knuckle.

"Gaa, get off me!" Marche protested, squirming around as much as he could. But not only could he not break Lunais's grip, the thief continued walking while giving him a noogie.

"Aww, Montblanc, the kid is priceless! Daryle's going to have a field day!" With a really creepy laugh, Lunais finally let go. Marche undid the leather thong that kept his thin ponytail together and tried to restore some sort of order to his hair. Concentrating on that task kept him from shuddering overmuch.

"What the kupo do you mean by that?" Montblanc grumbled. "You know what? Never mind. Kupo knows your answer would only scar me. Now, let's get out of here before that bangaa comes back."

"Why would he come back…?" Marche wondered aloud, his confusion painfully obvious to his friends. Lunais started laughing his head off while Montblanc only rubbed his furry temples, a groan of long-suffering escaping from his tiny mouth.

* * *

Marche found himself being escorted to a rather large building. Unlike most of the structures he'd seen so far, this one had two stories. A great many of the tables were filled with various people carrying weapons, talking and laughing over large glass mugs of some sort of frothy amber liquid. Judging by the flushed faces and laughter that seemed to infect the tables where this drink was served, it must be very good. He wondered if he would be allowed to have some later on…

His eyes were drawn to a counter, where several patrons were sitting and exchanging golden circular things with holes punched in the center for said drinks with a jovial-looking elderly gentleman dressed in blue and brownish robes, with a green-bordered white cloth wrapped around his head. One of the patrons pushed a significantly larger pile of gold at the robed man and pointed at one of the pieces of paper nailed to the large board behind the counter. Dark eyes sparking with interest, he made a conciliatory gesture to the other people around the counter and broke off to hold a quiet conversation with the woman who had just given him the shiny things. Marche's eyes couldn't help but shoot to his hairline as his eyes took in the rabbit-eared woman dressed a short white, sleeveless and topless dress that seemed to be little more than two pieces of cloth held together by strings, and the belt around her waist from which a long thin sword hung. "Um… it's not _normal _for girls to dress like that here, is it?" he knew he sounded slightly panicked. He couldn't help it.

Montblanc hit Lunais over the head with his rod just as the man opened his mouth wide to make some sort of witty response. "Kupo, you should really stop giving him ammunition, and no, it's not. The viera are… the viera. You'll understand once you meet a few more of them."

"And if by 'meet' you mean-" Lunais started, grin still threatening to split his face despite the crack to the head he'd just received. Montblanc headed him off with another smack.

"Lunais, I'm serious. Lay off of him, kupo, can't you see he's embarrassed enough as it is?"

"Huh?"

"Kid, you're redder than a tomato. You look like someone hit you in the face with a fire spell," Lunais clarified.

"Oh," Marche replied. Well, no wonder his face felt so hot then. He wondered what the heck he could do to fix that. His empty memory came up with nothing, so he tried to direct his thoughts elsewhere and hope that his face would return to normal. "So, um, where are we?"

"This is one of the local pubs, kupo! The clans hang out here to collect information and get job assignments!"

Montblanc's cheerful proclamation caused Marche to take a second look around the place. Now that he looked, everyone was carrying around a weapon of some sort, and even though they were talking and laughing, no one was completely ignoring everyone else in the room. A great many of the men, at least, seemed to be very well built. It was… intimidating. "Um…everyone looks really tough…"

"Of course they do. Being in a clan can be pretty dangerous if you don't know what you're doing," Lunais added.

"Maybe I should think this over a bit more thoroughly…" Marche muttered.

"You know," Montblanc said quietly, "Clans travel to a lot of different places. It would be an easy way to try and look for someone who knows you without having to risk traveling alone. And no one is going to force you to stay if you don't want to, kupo. You can leave any time you want."

"Okay, I guess…" Marche muttered. He still wasn't sure he liked the thought of this clan business… but really, where else was he supposed to go?

"Great!" Montblanc replied, his little wings flapping in excitement. "Then let's go over to our table so I can introduce you to everyone!" Marche suddenly found himself being dragged along by the wrist to a table far from the entrance of the pub, right next to the unlit fireplace. The table was just far enough away from the candle-lit insets in the wall and the chandelier (for some reason, the pub had no windows) that it was difficult to see the occupants from a distance, although two of them had those weird, rabbit-like ears that Marche had been seeing since waking up. The third was another bangaa, which made Marche wince. Hopefully he could avoid stepping on this one's toes – he didn't think his nerves could handle another fight.

Details became more apparent as they drew closer to the table. One of the occupants was a viera, and this one was dressed even more outrageously than the woman sitting at the counter. A piece of bright red cloth had been wrapped crosswise across her torso, and it was the only thing covering the upper half of her body. As if in deliberate contrast, her hair was a vivid, gemlike blue, worn very long in two braids strung with black and white beads of various sizes that glinted in the candlelight. Leggings of a slightly darker red than her top clung to her legs like a second skin, merging into the black leather boots that she had propped up on the table. Some sort of impossibly complicated design had been tattooed on her stomach. She _was _very pretty, Marche couldn't deny that. But in a very intimidating, chew-you-up-and-spit-you-out kind of way.

"You seem to be rather conservative today, Chareen," Lunais commented as he grabbed one of the chairs around the table, directly across from her. Maybe Marche was imagining things, but the man sounded disappointed.

In response to Lunais's complaint, the woman named Chareen gave him a very flat look. And yawned.

And stretched.

Lunais didn't have anything else to say after that.

"The two of you act like children," Came a muffled sigh from somewhere behind a rather thick book. A white-furred creature that _sort of _looked like a viera, but the ears were floppy instead of standing at attention, and what little Marche could see of the face was too rounded. He (it certainly sounded like a male voice) was wearing some sort of shapeless white robe bordered by red triangles that had to be uncomfortable in the heat (Marche was sweating through his long-sleeved blue top and was very much begrudging Lunais his sleeveless top) A blue gem glinted in the murk directly next to the fireplace. When he squinted, Marche could just make out a dark brown staff attached to it.

"It's not our fault you have no sense of humor," Chareen teased, sticking out her tongue.

"Exactly my point," the white creature replied, shooting her a disapproving glare from over the pages of his tome.

"Cut the nu mou a break, Chareen, at leasst he'ss not trying to lecture you about your wardrobe anymore," the bangaa sighed, pulling a pale blue cap with a bright yellow feather stuck in it down over his eyes and leaning back as if preparing to take a nap.

"Because, after all, I'm sure I am the only person here who would be terribly unhappy if the viera were to actually put on some clothing," the white creature – nu mou? – sneered.

"It's called freedom of expression, Arthur, you really should try it sometime," Chareen snapped, taking her feet of the table and rocking back into a fully upright position so she could give the nu mou the full benefit of her glare.

"KUPO! Your attention, please!" Montblanc shouted, drawing some surprised glances from several nearby tables before the patrons. Upon seeing Montblanc they quickly lost interest and returned to their own beverages and conversations, which made Marche wonder just how often Montblanc had to yell at his clan. "As you all might have noticed if you weren't so busy creating arguments with one another-" a few sheepish glances found their way to the tiny moogle, but no one interrupted his speech "-our clan has acquired a new potential member. His name is Marche, and he'll be traveling with us while trying to recover his memory, so I expect you _all _to treat him with a bit of compassion, kupo." Montblanc then turned back to Marche, and in a much more level voice started to introduce everyone. "You've already met Lunais. He specializes in sneaking around, 'discovering' valuables, and sticking knives in people when they're not looking."

"Hmph, you make it sound like I can't hold my own in a fight, Montblanc! I was first in my class before I got sick of the Sprohm Military Academy, remember?"

"Before they threw you out, you mean," Montblanc grumbled under his breath before continuing as if he hadn't said anything at all. "The viera is Chareen, and she's fairly good with a bow. Sitting next to her for some reason known only to kupo is Arthur, our healer, and to her right is Watoo, a monk. As you can see, we're far from a large clan, but we still seem to get by."

"Um… hello, everyone," Marche mumbled taking the chair that Lunais pulled back for him, feeling very shy for some reason. "I… I'd like to thank you for taking me in like this. I'll try not to be too much trouble…"

"Finally, someone with a bit of manners," Arthur groaned, rolling his eyes in Chareen's direction. She made a rather big show of turning away from him.

"You ssaid your name wass Marche, correct?" the bangaa, Watoo asked as Montblanc hopped onto the chair on the other side of Lunais, something like curiosity glinting in his jet-dark eyes. "Iss there a ssurname that goess along with it?"

"What's a surname?" Marche asked. Arthur smacked the heel of his free hand against his forehead before turning the page of his book.

"…like a family name. For example, my given name is Lunais, but my surname is Starblade. Everyone in my immediate family will have the same surname… most of the time. It's a bit more complicated than that… ah, I'll explain it later. Anyway, it would be a big help looking for someone who knows you if we had a surname. Can you remember it?"

"…sorry, but no. 'Marche' is all I can remember," the boy replied. _And I'm not even completely sure about that much… _he added in the privacy of his own mind.

"I…ssee…" the bangaa muttered.

"Do you… have you heard that name before?" Marche asked intently.

"Not really. You merely bear a passssing ressemblance to ssomeone I knew a long, long time ago," the bangaa replied. "I wissh I knew of ssomething that would help," he added upon seeing the crestfallen expression on Marche's face.

"I should have known that this wouldn't be so easy," Marche sighed.

"Don't get discouraged, kupo. We'll find something sooner or later," Montblanc assured the boy, reaching up on tiptoe to pat him on the upper arm.

"Say, speaking of names, Montblanc, does this clan have one yet?" Marche asked, partially out of curiosity and partially to shift the topic of conversation to something a bit less… personal.

"Nope, kupo… we can't seem to agree on one."

"Say, why don't we let Marche suggest a few? Epic start to his new life and all that…" Lunais suggested.

"Can't be any worse than the other few dozen that we've already rejected," Chareen agreed. "So, let's hear some!"

"Um…" Not that he could remember any situations like this from his past, but Marche already hated the feeling of being put on the spot like this. "Ah…" What if he couldn't think of anything? Would they all just start laughing? Even Montblanc? "What about… Clan Phoenix?"

Arthur's book slammed shut, throwing a fine film of dust into the air. "Absolutely not!" the nu mou shouted, his eyes bulging.

"Why not? I think it'ss a fine name," Watoo countered. Arthur made several strangled noises that clearly wanted to be objections but just couldn't force themselves out of a throat choked with rage.

"Watoo old buddy, you're never allowed to call me crazy _ever _again," Lunais admonished, but judging by the huge grin on his face and the way he reached around Montblanc's chair to pat the bangaa on the shoulder, he was more amused and impressed than upset.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize that was a bad suggestion," Marche muttered, although he was more confused than anything else. It was just a name, after all. What was everyone getting so worked up over?

"It wasn't a _bad_ suggestion… it shows a lot of daring," Chareen replied, something about the way she was looking at him making him feel an inexplicable urge to squirm on his chair. "But as Montblanc said, we are a small clan, and inexperienced. It is perhaps a bit _too _daring a name for us at this point."

"I…see." _Not. _"How 'bout… Clan Nutsy?" _Because you're all insane?_

"Kupo! Henceforth we shall be known as Clan Nutsy!" Montblanc declared, his speech even faster and higher-pitched than usual. Marche wasn't sure, but he thought the odd, winged little creature wanted to shut down the debate before someone hit someone else.

"I'm not entirely sure…" Arthur began.

"_Henceforth we shall be known as Clan Nutsy!" _Montblanc repeated, hopping over to the nu mou and muttering something in his ear which shut the man up. "And now I'm going to the Guildmaster to make it official!"

And with that he skipped away.

"I think I just missed something else," Marche said to Lunais. "I feel like I missed a lot of things in that conversation.

"Welcome to reality, kid," Lunais replied, clapping Marche on the shoulder to avoid hitting the shield strapped to his back.

* * *

AN: Concerning Gil

With the sheer volume of money that is exchanged for goods in the FF universe, it doesn't make any sense for store owners to have to count every individual coin. In my universe, people keep gil on Strings and Bands.

Strings are all a regulation length on which a hundred gil pieces can be stored. Bands keep gil in units of a thousand. Most people who have been running a business for a while can tell just by looking if you have a full String or Band. In the large cities like Sprohm and Cadoan, banks hand out Strings and Bands… you can also get them from a smaller city's local Guild Headquarters, where the heads of all the city guilds meet to conduct business(thanks for the catch, Insane Juggler… more on guilds in later chapters.) Deliberately screwing around with the length of Strings or Bands is an act of fraud that lands you in jail (at least, in my AU)

AN(2): In case you were wondering, Montblanc reminded Arthur that if Chareen decided she liked the name Phoenix after all, that they might be outvoted 4-2. The thought of his fate hanging in Chareen's hands was more than enough to shut the nu mou up.

AN(3): I'll try and give you a rough idea of what my Ivalice looks like – geography is kinda important in this fic

Picture the map divided into quarters. Cadoan is located in the north towards the center, surrounded by the Uladon Bog to the east, Sienna Gorge to the west, Ozmonfield to the north and the Gotor Sands to the south. Most of the northeast is taken up by the Jagds and poor terrain (mountains, caves, active volcanoes… fun stuff like that.) Muscadet is on the ocean in the southeast corner of the map in my universe, surrounded by forests .

If you go north and west through the Nubswood, you will reach Cyril. Aside from the Nubswood, Cyril is surrounded on all sides by desert. If it weren't a major trading post between Bervenia, Sprohm, Cadoan and Muscadet, it probably wouldn't exist

Sitting in the southwest, bordered by grasslands, is the port of Baguba. Baguba, as a port city, gets a fair taste of life in different cultures and tends to chafe a bit under the arbitrary and totalitarian rule of the palace. Trade between Baguba and those towns allied directly with the palace (Cyril, Cadoan, and Sprohm) is a bit… strained. Baguba tends to bypass all towns that share close ties with the crown and trade exclusively with Muscadet while Bervenia does the same.

North of Baguba, tucked away in the narrowest point of the White Bay is Castle Bervenia itself. At the mouth of the bay is the island that contains the city of Sprohm. To either side of island are a series of chains that can be raised in an emergency, denying ships access to the harbor… and the castle. Although this ancient defense is now obsolete thanks to the development of airships by Baguba, it is still a formidable defense against foreign invaders. With the Sienna Gorge to the north and the Kudik Peaks to the south, invasion by land is nearly impossible.

Try to keep this map in your head. It will become important later on.


	3. Learning the Ropes

I have a confession to make… I'm a terrible speller. No, I'm serious. If it weren't for the wonders of spellcheck, it would be nearly impossible to read my stuff. My brain likes to add/reverse letters, especially when I'm reading or writing quickly… and if something gets entered incorrectly into my head, I continue to remember and use the incorrect version for months, if not years. I went back over the first couple chapters and fixed some spelling errors I noticed… so, if you see any noticeable mistakes, especially with any Final Fantasy names/terminology or just made-up words (my brain is a strange and frightening place sometimes)… please tell me! I don't have a beta reader and do my own editing, so I often miss that sort of thing.

In another note, I loathe this chapter. I've had it mostly done since last Friday, and have spent most of the intevening time trying to make it not suck. Personally, I'm not sure how well I succeeded.

Disclaimer: Curse you, SquareEnix, and your refusal to give me a controlling share of your stock!

Chapter-specific warnings: Bloodshed, death, language. (…not a surprise, I'm sure…)

* * *

_**-Mission Requests-**_

_**A clan's life revolves around the local pub, where the leader of the clan accepts clan missions at his or her discretion. Individual members can also accept solo missions with the approval of the clan leader. Missions are the best, most legitimate way for a clan to earn the money it needs to survive.**_

* * *

To Rise From the Lethe

Second Chapter: Learning the Ropes

* * *

"I'm sorry, refresh my memory… _what, _exactly, does fighting monsters have to do with picking some herbs?" Marche shouted, avoiding the giant ant's slavering pincers by jumping _over _the creature, landing with one hand on its back and pushing off, ending up behind it to deliver a painful slash to its unprotected backside.

"Why did you think this was a mission request in the first place?" Chareen asked, firing an arrow into the overlarge blue ant's eye. It let out an unearthly shrieking noise before shuddering to a collapse, legs still twitching spasmodically.

"I don't know! I…" Marche flailed verbally, trying to find an answer as his mind went back to the previous day when Montblanc had been trying to introduce him to the workings of clan life...

* * *

"Picked up another misfit, Montblanc?" the man behind the counter asked, pouring a glass of water from one of the large barrels behind the counter and sliding it to the moogle.

"Be nice, kupo, and yes, Marche is the newest member of Clan Nutsy. Marche, this is Old Ryan. He's the owner of the Dragon's Claw and the Guildmaster of Cyril. All official mission requests go through him," the moogle explained as he picked up his glass of water and slid a few pieces of gil across the counter to Ryan, who made them disappear to some place behind the counter.

"I see. Now that you lot have a name, you should probably think up an official insignia for your clan, so that you can get some badges made. It'll be a requirement if you take on any more members, so you might as well get it out of the way now," the elderly man reminded him.

"Oh, kupo," Montblanc moaned. "I look forward to that with great relish."

"Um, missions?" Marche asked, trying to bring his mentor back to the point of this outing.

"It's jobs for clans, basically… how we make money. So Ryan's probably the most important person in Cyril… for the clans, anyway, so be respectful, kupo."

"I will, I will…"

"Seems like you really picked up an interesting case this time, Montblanc," Ryan commented. "Most people wouldn't be putting so much effort _intareo_ helping a lad like this... but then again, you _are _you. After Lunais, he must seem like a breath of fresh air."

"Funny you should mention Lunais, since he said much the same thing when he and Marche were first introduced, kupo." Marche somehow managed not to laugh at the almost comical look of disgust on the elderly man's face. "By the by, Marche happens to be the reason I'm here today… I'd like to post a request."

The man's gray eyebrows disappeared underneath his head wrapping. "A request? Are you sure you really want to, Montblanc? You lot have been tight on money for as long as you've been in Cyril."

"It's important. Clan Nutsy is posting a formal request for anyone with information on Marche's past to come forward. We're posting a reward of five thousand gil."

"Montblanc, that will wipe you out entirely," Ryan protested. "I respect you for what you're trying to do with your clan, but there's a difference between helping people and being an idiot. If I heard right from your conversation then you have amnesia, correct lad?"

"Well, yeah…" Marche muttered.

"Then what's to stop some con artists from feeding you false information and going along their merry way? Be reasonable, Montblanc."

"Of course, we'll have to confirm the information ourselves. You'll get a thirty percent cut of the reward for being mediator. This is also to be a roving request, kupo," Montblanc continued as if he hadn't heard. "It stays up until I personally take it down."

Ryan blinked. "Montblanc, you don't have that kind of money."

"That's why we'll also be entering the clan wars," the little creature said.

"At your clan's current strength? That's suicide, moogle."

"As clan leader, that's for me to decide," Montblanc replied, pulling a brass loop with five leather chords strung with the shiny golden things - gil - out of a leather pouch around his waist and displaying them for the stunned guild master with a supremely unconcerned air. "As you can see, I have the reward money, kupo," Montblanc replied before detaching the leather strands holding the money from his ring, which he then put back into the pouch. "Please send a runner to notify me the moment someone responds to my request."

"Montblanc, I can't let you go so far to help me!" Marche protested. "This is way too much! I just met you yesterday, you don't have to do all this stuff for me!"

"When I formed this clan, kupo, I wanted there to be a place for people who needed help, no matter who they were. And you really, really need help, Marche. This is probably the best-"

"-and most risky… not to mention expensive…" Ryan cut in

"-way to find someone who knows something about your past," Montblanc continued as if Ryan had never interrupted, his attention fixed solely on Marche. "It sure beats wandering around at random and hoping someone recognizes you, right?"

"Montblanc, I…" Marche trailed off, not knowing what to say. Suddenly an idea hit him. "Um, Mr. Guildmaster?"

"Please, just call me Ryan. Everyone does," the old man corrected.

"Well, um… I know this isn't much, but… is there anything up there that I can get with this much money?" Marche asked, holding up the leather coin pouch he'd had since first waking up.

"Marche, that's all the money you..." Montblanc trailed off as Marche gave him a significant look. "Fine, kupo. Guess I'm not in a position to complain, am I?"

"Hmm," Ryan muttered, pulling out a brass ring about as wide as Marche's fully extended hand, from which a lot of leather strings were hanging, some of them as long as the ones Montblanc had just given away to the guild master. Three of the short ones were completely filled with gold coins and knotted at the end to keep them from falling off. "Looks like exactly three hundred gil. Well, there _is _one mission for that amount," the elderly man replied, smiling as Marche's face lit up. He then turned away for a brief moment to retrieve a scrap of paper from the monstrous area behind the counter that might have been a large wooden board before all the papers swallowed it. "Herb picking for the local pharmacists' guild. Won't net you a lot of cash as they're notoriously greedy gil-grubbers, but since it's only a mission to the Giza Plains, it won't be that bad a mission for seasoning a raw recruit, either." He then turned and shot a glare at Montblanc. "And since you seem so bound and determined on throwing your clan to the wolves, you could use all the experience you can get."

"It's time for us to move up," Montblanc said softly. "We can't stay on the bottom rungs forever, kupo."

"Whatever," Ryan grunted, clearly annoyed. "Are you taking the mission, Montblanc?"

"But of course, kupo."

"Very well," the older man sighed, taking the gil amassed on the counter and returning eight empty pieces of leather rope to their rightful owners. "I can't help but feel that I'm letting you youngsters down somehow, but then I guess doing stupid things is part of being young..."

* * *

"I'm just saying that 'easy mission' shouldn't include being almost _eaten _by rabid monsters!" Marche protested.

"Heh, you think _this _is rabid? These beasts are merely exhibiting normal aggressive behavior against entities that have invaded their territory… and probably would have ignored us if _certain people _hadn't decided to antagonize one of them with a throwing knife!" Arthur shouted at the thief currently embroiled in combat with an enraged goblin

"I still say the antlion was looking at me funny!" came the cheeky protest from the cheery young man. Marche was certain that Lunais was actually having _fun._ Marche couldn't understand that. How was the threat of being skewered, beaten, or otherwise mutilated _fun?_

"Are you a human or an adolescent bangaa? You _do _remember that the judges only appear to arbitrate disputes between clans, yes? This means that you can die when it's just you _and your clan _fending off a horde of monsters!" Arthur growled as another of the ant-things tried to pounce on him. A word in a language that Marche couldn't understand, spat in much the same manner as a curse, summoned a bright yellow light between the nu mou and his attacker. The monster bounced off, Arthur stumbled backwards, and the shield disappeared. With a few choice words of his own (all learned from Lunais) Marche dashed over to the beleaguered mage, hoping he'd be able to get between the healer and his attacker before it was too late.

"I ressent that comment!" Watoo shouted as he went fist to fist with his own opponent; a creature with brown fur and floppy ears, clothed only in a ragged piece of dark blue cloth belted around its scrawny body. Unsurprisingly, with the advantage of chain mail and a pair of steel knuckles, the bangaa had a commanding advantage. While the monk remained mostly uninjured as of yet, one of the creature's arms hung uselessly at its side, and it was warily worrying a loosened tooth with its tongue from an unsuccessful attempt to take a bite out of Watoo's midsection. "I have much more common ssensse than that foolissh thief!"

"Note that I said 'adolescent' bangaa. I would believe that that excludes you, my friend," Arthur replied, giving Marche a nod of thanks as he fell back behind the much more athletically inclined young man. "And speaking of adolescents… Montblanc! A bit of magical support would be appreciated!"

Suddenly a rather large fireball decimated a fairly large section of the field, crispifying both the antlion that Marche had been fighting and the goblin that had been giving Lunais so much trouble. It might have cooked Marche to a rather unpleasant extra-crispy as well if some buried instinct hadn't forced him to jump backwards at the last possible second. Thankfully for all of them the fire flared out almost the instant it ignited, leaving only a large circle of blackened plant life and a few smoldering monster carcasses.

"Learned a new spell…kupo…" the little moogle gasped, leaning heavily on his staff as his wings and antenna drooped in exhaustion. "…'s called 'Fira'. What'd….you think…?"

"I think you should give us some warning before you set the field on fire," Chareen observed, dusting some nonexistent grit off of the leather top and skirt she'd changed into before they left town. "And that maybe you should think a bit before you cast spells like that. What is it that we were looking for, again?"

"Just some muscmaloi… kupo. It grows everywhere around here… I used to collect it all the time… when I still lived in Baguba... It shouldn't be any problem… to find as much as we need… kupo."

"_After_ you take a bit of a rest," Arthur insisted, holding a hand on the exhausted moogle's shoulder to stop him from moving. Montblanc slipped into slumber almost immediately, a half-formed protest trailing off as his head nodded and his staff slipped from numbed fingers. With a put-upon sigh, Arthur lowered their exhausted leader to the ground and assumed charge in his stead. "Now, everyone who was injured in that last fight, come over for healing. Also, if you did anything to your clothes let me know so I can do something about them when we get back to Cyril. Chareen, if you're not hurt put those tracking skills you're so proud of to use and find us some of those herbs. Also see if you can find a place to refill our water skins… we're going to have to go through the damn desert on our way back to Cyril. Marche and Lunais, you can help Watoo keep a lookout for…" the nu mou trailed off and grimaced, as if suddenly remembering something unpleasant. "Actually, why don't you help Chareen? It'll be easier to keep you out of trouble that way."

"I don't see why I should have to listen to-"

"Unless you need healing?" Arthur interrupted, giving his staff a surprisingly competent twirl that Marche found slightly intimidating.

"I'm alright, I think…" Marche muttered.

"I'm also good," Lunais conceded, throwing an arm around Marche's neck. "C'mon, kid, let's go do some gardening!"

"Ugh-hey!" Marche protested as he was dragged off. "Let go of me!"

"Not just yet. I want to talk, see?"

"Okay, I get it! Let me go and I'll do whatever you want!" Marche cried. Lunais dropped him instantly, a huge grin blossoming across his face.

"So, you'll spar with me every day? Awesome!"

"Um… are you sure _that's _what you want? I mean, I'm not very good. I don't really know what I'm doing half the time…"

"Marche," Lunais said, all traces of joking leaving his voice, "I know you don't remember much, but you _are _good. You clearly had training sometime in the past. Probably not the Military Academy… you're too unorthodox… but you were definitely taught _somewhere._ Besides, I want to learn how to do that flip-thing you just used! That was one of the coolest things I've ever seen!"

"If you say so… but I'm not really sure I can do that move again. It just… kinda happened."

"No big deal, I'll just have to… push you a little," Lunais replied, the same smile he'd been wearing the first time they met reappearing on his face.

"Um, suddenly I have a bad feeling about this…"

"Don't worry, nothing bad's going to happen… that's what we have Arthur for!"

"Why would we need a healer if we're just going to practice? I mean… hey, wait up Lunais! No ducking out on my question!"

* * *

"How's our fearless leader?" Chareen asked as they trudged ever closer to their home, Cyril. The stretch of desert between them and their destination was much easier to cross at night, according to Arthur. It was certainly cooler than the first time they'd been through the area, so Marche couldn't find anything to complain about. Not that he would have even if he did. After everything Montblanc had done for him, it would have been rude to complain.

"Sstill out cold," Watoo confirmed, shifting the unconscious moogle on his back to make him easier to carry. "I don't know how he expectss uss to ssurvive the clan warss like thiss… sspeaking of which, do we even know how he managed to do thiss to himsself?"

"I heard him… the fool cut the spell," Arthur grumbled. "Which would have been fine if he'd been casting something he already knew, but…"

"Uh… 'cut the spell'?" Marche asked, utterly confused.

"He left off part of the incantation. Basically, it allowed him to pour more power into the spell. If it's a spell you're familiar with you use your mind to channel the extra energy and increase accuracy, but since Montblanc hasn't mastered Fira yet at the _normal _power level…" Chareen trailed off with a wince.

"Ouch," Marche winced.

"_Ouch_ doesn't begin to sum it up, he could have killed us all…"

"Lay off Montblanc, he got us all out of a tight spot out there. And as for the clan wars… I think it was time we entered," Lunais grumbled. "I mean, we've been a clan for six months, and what good has staying out done us, huh? Besides, it's not like _everyone _in the wars is super powerful. There are plenty of smaller clans like us trying to get themselves noticed."

"I know that… I jusst have a disslike for anything that reliess sso heavily on luck…" the bangaa growled.

"Um… I know you guys are probably getting sick of me asking all these questions, but… what are the clan wars?"

"Essentially, the wars are the common name for the struggle amongst the numerous clans for prestige, money, and control of the various territories of Ivalice. For example, the area we are currently passing through, as well as most of Cyril and the area to the south and west…"

"Hold it!" shouted an unfamiliar voice as a scruffy-looking man in a dirt-colored cape materialized from behind a sand dune. The pin that fastened it, a canine-looking face with teeth bared on a field of dark blue, glinted in the light of the quarter moon. "Looks like you've got a lot of loot there, kids. You know the rules: Borzoi takes a cut of all the supplies a caravan brings in to and out of Cyril."

"…is controlled by Clan Borzoi," Arthur finished in a growl. "Not now, of all times…"

"Are you blind? We sure as hell aren't a caravan," Lunais spat. "And there's nothing in the bags but medicinal herbs. Common ones too. We don't have anything worth stealing, so get lost, grunt."

From somewhere in the gloom, two arrows thudded into the sandy ground on either side of Lunais's right foot. He didn't so much as flinch. "Your archers can't aim for all the gil in Bervenia Palace," he sneered while the others stared at him like he'd lost his mind. If he'd ever had one in the first place.

"Lunais, lay off. Montblanc's exhausted and we don't know how many there are," Chareen hissed under her breath.

"What makes you think they'll leave us alone even if we do back off? We're flat broke, in case you've forgotten, but do you think the Bozos are going to care? They'll just keep coming until they get something worth selling. Our weapons would probably fetch a nice chunk of change after they've beaten us within an inch of our lives and stripped our prone bodies," the thief growled.

"Are they allowed to do that?" Marche asked, his grip tightening on his short sword. He still wasn't sure he was comfortable with the idea of fighting for a living, but that didn't mean that he was ready to give up on one of his few links to his past, either. That, and from what little he knew so far wandering around without a weapon was akin to asking for trouble. Giving up his sword would be giving up any chance of leaving Cyril for answers about his past, and he wasn't willing to put all his hopes in one basket. Not yet, anyway.

"The judges make sure we don't violate the combat laws. Other than that, pretty much anything goes, although killing downed opponents after an engagement is over is generally frowned upon," Chareen explained. Marche hoped she was joking, but something about her tone and the way the visible Borzoi clan member was sizing them up made him doubt that.

"Do you want an engagement, brat? We'd be happy to have it out with you. Just don't expect the revival field to be able to fix everything when we're done."

"Fine. You think we're scared? Do you know what people say about you behind your backs? 'It was out with the Phoenix and in with the Bozos.' Everyone knows that you never could have gotten as much territory as you did if you hadn't jumped when the judges said 'frog' and handed them Bela Raidiuju. Tell me, can you lot get your grubby hands on _anything _you don't take from people too scared to fight you or that the palace hasn't handed you on a silver platter?"

"I… you… I'll have your tongue, you lying little bastard!" the enemy shouted just before he vanished behind the sand dune he'd been hiding behind in the first place.

"You hate us, don't you Lunais? This is why you keep doing stupid things, right?" Arthur groaned as the judge appeared. Marche wondered if it was the same judge, or if they merely all dressed exactly the same.

"Clan Borzoi, lead by Raol has challenged Clan Nutsy, lead by Montblanc, to an engagement. Today's law forbids the use of archer abilities during battle. You may now commence." Suddenly the night seemed to be considerably brighter, probably because of the revival field. Marche breathed a silent prayer of thanks that they wouldn't be fighting in near-darkness.

"Exodus," Chareen snapped, slipping a few pellets back into the pouch hanging from her belt.

"Perk up, Chareen, we actually lucked out for a change! Sseeing ass they have at leasst two enemy archerss, thiss really hurtss them more than uss," Watoo pointed out while trying to shake Montblanc awake.

"I can't complain about having my effectiveness as a fighter cut in half?" the viera grumbled.

"It's better to thank Ultima for small miracles that come our way," Arthur grunted. "Instead of complaining, why don't you see if you can keep the archers occupied while Lunais sneaks over to try and take them out?"

"Easier said than done," Chareen sighed, probably thinking back to the display they'd been given just a few moments ago. "But hey, I'll give it a go. I just don't know how long I'll be able to keep at it."

"Do what you can. Marche, since you have the best armor of the lot of us, I'd like you to try and catch up to their leader. However, if you encounter any other resistance you must fall back immediately. You're a decent fighter and I know you still have those potions I gave you earlier but I'm not sure you're up to taking on multiple opponents at once."

"I got it," Marche replied, drawing his weapon and freeing up his shield. He wasn't all that interested in trying to fight two or three people by himself either.

"Should you need to fall back, Watoo and I will be waiting at this location for Montblanc to regain consciousness. If you can lure them back here we can ambush them, especially if Montblanc has already been revived. Once those tasks have been completed, we will regroup at this spot and then do a systematic search for all remaining opposition. Any questions?"

"Yeah, who died and made you boss?" Lunais snapped.

"If only I could arrange for it to be you," Arthur muttered under his breath. "Do you have any ideas that don't involve us all getting skewered or losing our cargo, or would you rather idle here until the Borzoi come to remder this debate moot? Might I mention how dire our financial status will become if we can't get this to the pub by tomorrow afternoon?" the nu mou asked in a voice that actually carried.

"Fine, off I go to skin me some archers," Lunais grunted. "Keep them from turning me into a pincushion, sugar-ears," he added in a much sweeter tone to Chareen, snatching her free hand and kissing it briefly before spinning off into the gloom.

"That shameless flatterer," Chareen murmured, but her cheeks seemed a bit darker than Marche remembered as she pulled an arrow out of her half-spent quiver. Gathering up his courage, Marche set off after the man in the cloak at an easy lope.

* * *

For all his bragging about pulling out Lunais's tongue, the enemy leader was surprisingly elusive. Only flashes of that dark cloak from behind a sand dune or a scrubby, dried out desert bush let him know that he was still on the right track. It was really rather annoying, actually, and despite his better intentions he felt himself losing his temper. By the time Marche caught up to his opponent the pale shimmer that indicated the border of the revival field was clearly visible and fireballs had begun erupting behind them, briefly painting the night red-orange before they smoldered down to embers. Marche crossed his fingers and hoped that that meant that Montblanc had revived from his previous spell-induced coma instead of there being an enemy mage.

"Well, well, well, the little boy comes all by his lonesome to feed the hungry blade of Raol Quickfingers."

Marche suppressed another flash of annoyance at the arrogance his opponent was oozing before trying to channel a bit of Lunais by asking, "What are you doing all the way at the edge of the field? If you're looking for Lunais he's over that way sticking sharp pointy objects in your archer friends."

"I can deal with that brat another day," Raol replied with a dismissive wave, completely different from the way he had exploded over the same sort of insult before. "I'm more interested in you right now. You're the one Nutsy posted the request about, right? Yes boy," the man continued, his brown eyes crinkling in unwholesome glee, "We already knew who you were when that thief started to run off his mouth. Your leader Montblanc has… a bit of a reputation. Moreso in Baguba than out here in the sticks, but it's impossible to outrun the reach of Clan Borzoi forever. And imagine our surprise when he posted a request for information about a blonde-haired, blue-eyed boy named Marche?"

"Do you know something about me?" Marche asked, the tip of his short sword wavering and lowering slightly.

"Only this one thing… that you will soon join your people in Hell!" the man shouted, drawing a sword twice the length of Mache's and lunging forward. Marche managed to deflect the thrust with his shield – barely – and deliver a shallow cut to the man's overextended arm. Raol flinched, but still managed to keep a grip on his sword.

"You can't kill me as long as we're in the field, so why throw out empty threats?" Marche asked coolly, resisting the urge to shake out his partially numbed shield arm. Raol might be sloppy but deflecting the full force of the man's attack had _hurt._

"Who says they're empty?" Raol sneered, darting forward again with his sword raised over his head for a powerful downward strike. Despite the fact that his opponent was clearly telegraphing all of his attacks, Marche still didn't have enough time to get out of the way. Instinctively, his shield arm snapped up to intercept the blow, but the sheer force of the attack threw Marche backwards, sending him to the sandy dirt with enough force to knock the breath out of him. The downed soldier blinked, trying to regain his equilibrium and figure out why the sky right above him was shimmering like that…

_The edge of the field! _Marche realized, rolling to his feet and jumping the side just as a swathe of air ripped through his previous position. The edge of the blast still clipped his left leg, sending blood flying and spinning him in a half-circle, depositing him in the dirt once again. Only this time his nose was practically rubbing up against the edge of the magical barrier that was the only thing separating him from the difference between temporary injuries and a sticky death.

"Nowhere to run now, cheeky little brat," Raol informed him, an eerie smile creeping across his face as he raised his sword. Panicking, Marche dropped his sword, his hands twitching in a half-forgotten pattern before he slammed his left hand down and screamed at the top of his lungs, _"Ninjutsu: Earth Veil!"_

The earth seemed to roil for a moment before the sandy ground rose up like a wave heading at his target. The man tried to jump out of the way, but was temporarily buried beneath the dirt with a panicked scream. Marche sat there staring slack-jawed at the mound of grit that had replaced his opponent for a moment before he went into his own emergency pouch to try and find a potion to fix his leg. There was no way he was going to be able to keep fighting with a lamed leg, and something told him that whatever it was he'd just done wasn't nearly enough to stop his opponent. Fingers closing around the glass surface of a bottle, Marche wrenched it out of his pack, not even bothering to check the color of the liquid before he upended it over his injured leg. Red goop drenched his calf, and Marche could feel rather than see flesh knitting together as the pain disipated. The breath that he hadn't realized he'd been holding burst from his lungs as he sighed in relief.

"Cheap little son of a bitch!" Raol screamed, bursting from the dirt like some sort of vengeful monster just as Marche had finished treating his leg. "You're just like the rest of your cowardly clan, you little monster!"

"I don't know what it was I did to make you hate me so much, but leave the rest of Clan Nutsy out of this!" Marche shouted. Charging seemed like a good idea at that moment. Not only would it take him away from the edge of the field and certain death, but it might provide an opportunity to land a hit on the man who'd just insulted the only people who'd shown him any kindness since waking up in this strange world. Raol met his charge blade for blade, the force of the man's parry forcing Marche backwards. Having expected this, Marche allowed himself to be thrown to the side by the full force of the parry, which left Raol's body wide open. Ducking underneath the outstretched arm, Marche managed to bury his short sword halfway up the length in Raol's side before the fighter forcibly ejected him from attack range with a scream of pain and a well-placed kick.

"What makes you think I'm talking about the rest of those fools, you miserable little piece of trash?" Raol snarled, clapping a hand to his bleeding side. "A worthless rabble of a clan like that… you think they actually matter?"

"What are you rambling about?" Marche growled, charging forward with his sword arm held across his body. _Okay you overconfident prick, let's see if you're as bad at reading attacks as you are about telegraphing them._ Mistaking the ready stance as a simple horizontal chop, his opponent ducked to the left with a wide smirk that changed to a look of surprise as Marche followed him, spinning on one foot like a top. Unfortunately his strike missed his enemy's neck, and the deep cut he landed across his surprised enemy's chest didn't stop the man from stabbing him in the back when his attack's momentum left him open. Marche screamed in pain and used his short sword to force the man to back off, only to scream again when the weapon tore out of the wound as the other fighter sprang back to get some distance. The blade had caught him almost in the right shoulder, and he could tell from the sudden burning pain that his lung had been punctured. With that and the loss of his shield arm this fight wasn't going to last much longer, not unless he could get an opening to use another potion.

"Now who's cheap?" Marche gasped as he tried to figure out what to do next. His right hand dangled uselessly at his side, the bronze shield feeling like a boulder strapped to his arm. His left hand currently held his weapon. If he sheathed his sword to go for a potion Raol would kill him and drag him out of the revival field. Marche wasn't sure he'd be healed if he left the battle prematurely, but even if he was the nearly black blade in Raol's hand was sure to make the point moot. If he didn't heal himself he would bleed to death, with the same results.

This would be an excellent time for Montblanc to show up with a conveniently timed explosion. Or for Arthur and his healing spells to save the day. Or for any of the others to lend some support. But they weren't coming, he was by himself this time.

"Heh… you're not bad, kid, I'll give you that," the man wheezed as blood dripped down his clothing, turning brown cloth to a rusty red. Maybe his last attack hadn't been as suicidal as he'd first thought. Now, if he could just get Raol off-balance somehow, maybe he could…"Of course, considering who your parents were, that's not surprising."

"You actually know who I am…!" Marche gasped, the hints and cryptic comments the man had been throwing out throughout their conversation suddenly coming together and forming an actual conclusion. Half-baked surprise attacks quickly slipped out of his head.

"What, surprised? One look at your face and it's glaringly obvious," the other man grunted, _dropping his sword _and trying to use his cape to staunch his bleeding. Unfortunately, Marche was too stunned by his revelation to take advantage of the glaring opening. "Well, to people who are in the know, anyway. I'm not surprised your bumpkin friends didn't notice anything. Tell you what, Marche, come with me to Borzoi headquarters and I'll tell you everything you want to know. Borzoi has connections that Montblanc and his band of infantile troublemakers could never dream of possessing even if they had a hundred years to try. It would be child's play to find someone to heal your amnesia. It would be even easier to track down your family."

"I…"

"Well?"

"I think the offer would have been more tempting if you had left off the parts where you were trying to kill me," Marche growled, springing at his injured and unarmed opponent. Unfortunately he was already in midair before he noticed the smirk on Raol's face, and then suddenly the air became like an invisible fist, throwing him backward and up…

* * *

"Marche, can you hear me?" a female voice asked.

"Ow," Marche replied. His skull hurt almost as bad as it had when he'd first woken up to an empty memory in an alley that seemed like forever ago and far away.

"Okay, good. Ready to try opening your eyes?" the voice asked again. Since she'd asked so nicely, he did so. A viera with brilliantly violet hair swept up in a braided bun was smiling down at him, surrounded by a simple room with the same sand-colored stone walls that most of Cyril had. Like so many of the rooms in Cyril the single window was little more than a horizontal slit placed about three inches from the ceiling. Most of the light in the room came from the single candle sitting on the small table next to his bed, although judging from the complete lack of light filtering in through the window it was probably still nighttime. Or night again. How long had he been out, anyway?

"You look like Chareen," he muttered.

"I _am _Chareen, silly," the viera replied, rolling her eyes.

"Then what happened to your hair?" he asked, hoping his voice didn't actually sound as stupid as he was hearing it.

"Oh, this? I got bored waiting for you to wake up, so I dyed it a different color." Her head turned off to the right. "Oi, Arthur! Marche's awake!"

"It's about time," the nu mou muttered, sweeping into the room and leaving a familiar leather uniform splattered with something rusty brown on the table next to the door. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I got dropped on my head," the boy moaned. And then the pieces of information labeled _Chareen's uniform _and _bloodstains _and _mortal peril _clicked, and the last couple days of wandering and monster fighting and encounters with angry Borzoi clan members came back. "Wait… the last thing I remember was that Raol guy hitting me with some sort of invisible fist thing. Did we win the fight? Is everyone alright?"

"Well, I don't think you'd have woken up to such a nice reception if we'd lost…" Chareen trailed off as she and Arthur exchanged a Look. "Is that really the last thing you remember? You didn't see anyone besides the guy we sent you after? Or a flash of golden fire?"

"No, it was just me and him, and before you ask he was definitely the guy who knocked me out. I remember him making some sort of thrusting motion with his bare hand, and then I was flying in the opposite direction. What was that, anyway?"

"It sounds like the Air Render technique," Arthur sighed, moving over to Marche's bedside.

"And nothing like our mysterious flash," Chareen added.

"Indeed. Now, could you look at me for a moment?" Marche complied. "Hmm, childish though this question might sound... how many fingers am I holding up?"

"Three," Marche replied with a partially-contained snort.

"Correct, the nu mou snapped, not amused in the slightest. "Now... I suppose I should be glad Lunais isn't here... follow the tip of my staff with your eyes… excellent, although in the future I could do without the snickering. You don't seem to have a concussion, so…" the tip of Arthur's staff glowed a soft white and Marche's headache melted away. "…there. That should be all for now."

"Wait a second. Why were you guys asking all those questions before?" Marche asked as Arthur and Chareen moved towards the door.

"About ten minutes after the engagement began, we saw a flash of reddish-golden fire, about thirty feet high. Naturally, once our eyes re-adjusted to the night we regrouped and went to investigate. The Borzoi were much closer to the position and beat us there. We feared the worst for you, since we knew you'd gone in that direction alone, but… about five minutes after the Borzoi scattered, they retreated and the field went down. When we found you, you were out cold in the middle of a bunch of half-melted sand and… someone had cut off your opponent's head after charring him to a barely recognizable crisp. The revival field can't fix injuries like that," Chareen sighed, "so he's dead. And the Borzoi are probably going to think that we did it."

"What?" Marche gasped. "Who could possibly have… wait, you guys didn't think that _I…_"

"As Chareen said, you were found unconscious. When you were recovered there was moderate burn damage to your clothing, indicating that you were also hit by the technique. Furthermore, the bloodstains on your clothes indicate that you were probably too badly injured before the revival field went down to have enough physical strength remaining to behead a full-grown man with the weapon you favor. As such, it is unlikely that you were the one who killed our opponent," Arthur informed him.

"Translation: Arthur thinks you're too nice to be capable of something like that," Chareen added with a smirk.

"Hmph. Well, if you are quite done with mocking me, I believe I have a fair amount of work to attend to, and thus will take my leave. I _strongly _advise that you get all the rest you can, Marche. Remaining unconscious after the end of an engagement… it's rather unusual. It would be best for you and the clan to be certain that you are fully recovered."

"Do you think whoever killed that guy did something to me to?" Marche asked.

"…it's unlikely. I believe if that were the case, you would be among the deceased yourself." With that cheerful thought, Arthur gathered up the clothing he had been mending and left.

"…thanks," Marche muttered, resisting the urge to gather the blankets closer around himself. "By the way, you wouldn't happen to know what other sorts of injuries make it impossible for you to be revived, would you Chareen? I was under the impression that it was _impossible _to die in an engagement."

"Nothing's impossible, although it is pretty darn hard to be killed during an engagement," the viera replied. "Beheading, as you already know, is one of the few things that can permanently kill you. Same goes with having your skull crushed, although other parts of your body can heal fine from that. Severed limbs don't heal either, not unless you re-attach them before the field goes down. I think there are a couple of spells that can kill you permanently, but I don't know any of those, you'd have to ask Arthur. Oh, and if you get killed while you're petrified, that's it."

"Petrified?" Marche asked yet again, a part of him wondering when he'd finally have no more questions.

"Oh, that means you get turned to stone. Revival field fixes that once the engagement's over, but _only _that. So if you get broken to bitsy bits while you're a statue and get turned back, you come back as bitsy bits. Same goes with any injuries you had before you were turned to stone… they're still there when you get changed back."

"Pleasant," Marche grumbled.

"You already knew this wasn't a safe line of work," Chareen reminded him.

"There's a difference between knowing something and _knowing _something," Marche grumbled. It was too late to back out now though, not after Montblanc had put down all that money to help him get information. He had to stay in Clan Nutsy until he found some way to pay the selfless little moogle back, at the very least.

Unfortunately, the thought of that mission request brought something else back to the forefront of Marche's mind. "Damn it, now I'm never going to find out about…"

"Find out about what?" Chareen asked when Marche trailed off.

"Well… that guy I was fighting, the one who died? He said some stuff that made it sound like he knew who I actually was… although now that I think back on it, he didn't give any details." He looked up at Chareen, grabbing one of her wrists so she wouldn't try and shy off. "Do you think he actually knew something about who I am, Chareen?"

"Marche…" the viera murmured, gathering him up into a gentle hug. Every muscle in Marche's body tensed up, leaving him completely rigid for a moment before he relaxed. Chareen was just trying to comfort him, right? Her tone had been completely different from when she was talking to Lunais, right? "…the Borzoi are ruthless. That man probably just saw Montblanc's request in the pub and decided to use that information against you in the fight. He probably didn't know anything."

"I don't know… he seemed pretty intent on killing me," Marche muttered.

"Marche, we were in an engagement. That _is _the point, to hurt the other side so badly that they can't fight back," Chareen reminded him.

"No, I mean that he was really trying to kill me. I spent most of that fight trying to avoid being knocked out of the revival field," Marche protested, finally managing to extract himself from the viera's embrace. She flashed a grin at his discomfort before becoming serious again.

"Well, once you leave the field you're out of the engagement, that's true, but your injuries get healed up right away if you leave. You can't return to the engagement once you leave, but that doesn't really affect the rest of the clan unless you knock the clan leader out of the field, if he or she's on the mission. Then your clan automatically loses. Unless maybe they were trying to force a forefit by removing us all from combat?" Chareen wondered, but she sounded confused even to Marche… which made it a bit difficult to agree with her.

"No, I'm pretty sure he meant to kill me. He practically said as much himself."

"Hmm… there's still a good chance that he was just trying to psych you out," the viera muttered, holding up a hand to silence Marche before he interrupted her, "_but, _since you seem so certain about this… I'll talk to Lunais and we'll look into it ourselves. So don't mention this to the others in the meantime, okay?"

"Why would we keep a secret like this?" Marche asked.

"Well, those other three don't have a sneaky bone in their bodies, so I'd rather not get them involved. If this was just something personal that that Raol guy had against you, then it went into the grave with him." At Marche's dark look Chareen added, "He was attacking you, remember? Even if he wasn't trying to kill you, that's not the sort of thing an ally does. He wouldn't have given you any information anyway. And besides, he was a Borzoi… which would make him completely unreliable even without everything else."

"Chareen? Is something wrong, Chareen?" Marche queried hesitantly. He'd never heard Chareen talk about something with so much venom, not even when Arthur said something really cutting.

"It's… nothing, really. Anyway, until we find out if there's anything to this try and keep it to yourself. Watoo and Arthur are good people, but Watoo has a tenancy to act before he thinks and Arthur's… well, a bit inflexible. I'd let Montblanc know, but he'd just tell the others without thinking about the consequences."

"Which would be?" Marche prompted, not really sure he was getting Chareen's reasoning.

"…we'll talk about it in the morning, Marche. The last couple of days have been a trial for you; you definitely need some sleep," the viera replied with a note of finality in her tone that the boy couldn't argue with. She filed out of the little bedroom, taking the only candle with her. Alone in the dark with nothing else to do, Marche rolled over on his side and let sleep take him.

* * *

Q: What the heck happened at the end of that fight?

A: …why, whatever do you think? (evil smile)

AN: Montblanc as Clan Leader

Before you gut me with those nice, shiny pitchforks, please take a tiny breather to think for a second. Would YOU want some random kid your boss picked up off the streets that has _no memory _of anything about how the world works to take over running your organization? It makes no logical sense for Marche to become the clan leader at this point. Besides, I always thought it was unrealistic for the shy kid that Marche was painted as in the beginning of FFTA to suddenly step up and take on a leadership position. People's personalities don't magically change, they _grow_ over time. My version of Montblanc _is _a bit too impulsive to remain leader for very long and he _will _eventually abdicate his position to Marche… but it will be a major conflict when it does happen. Some versions of my notes have some of the core members of Clan Nutsy _leaving _in response to the debacle. So, for any anti-Montblanc readers out there, please just sit back and wait for the impending explosion.

AN(2): Chareen's interaction with Marche in the last section

THIS WILL NOT BE A MARCHE/OC STORY! I loathe Mary Sues or any other non-cannon character fawning over a main character unless the story is written _very _well, and as such, if my original characters hook up with anyone, it will be with each other. Marche falls quite firmly into the 'lost puppy' category in Chareen's mind, and in case you couldn't tell, Marche finds her to be rather intimidating. Not good couple material, IMO.

AN(3): 'cutting spells'

Arthur's talking about a skill called Turbo MP in the game, which white mages learn from the White Robe. He didn't realize that Montblanc couldn't learn that skill… yeah, poor moogle just botched the spell. ;)

AN(4): Random fact

According to the online dictionary I use, a borzoi is actually a type of dog that was once used in Russia to hunt wolves.


End file.
